


How Many Times?

by Fierygirl0 (orphan_account)



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Breeding, Dubious Consent, F/M, Imprisonment, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mentions of non-con, Scars, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 17:41:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1950237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Fierygirl0
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fight against Bach didn't exactly go the way he'd planned, and the end of the war - as far as he's concerned - lands him in a cell without windows, or a door. As he loses his mind, he also begins losing periods of time, hours he doesn't remember and doesn't have an explanation for. - Past current canon. Explicit Ichigo/Candice, implied Ichigo/Mininas and Ichigo/Giselle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Many Times?

I stare down at my wrist, flexing it and watching the scarred skin tighten from the movement. Six jagged lines across the top of it, marks I tore into my flesh with my own nails. I take a deep breath in, closing my eyes and shutting myself off from the world for a moment. I think back, examining my memories with resigned exhaustion, and find exactly what I'm afraid of. Another blank spot, time that I can't account for, but wake from with fresh bruises, sore muscles, and a pounding headache. I fight down the tremble that wants to shake my shoulders, letting my head hang as my eyes open.

I reach for my wrist, tearing into my skin again, adding a seventh line. It doesn't hurt as much as it probably should, and I thank my mildly disconnected state for that. Everything is dulled to me, and the pain of ripping marks into my own skin is no exception. I dig and scratch until my arm jerks away from my hand, until blood drips and pools on the white floor of my cell, and I can't force myself to continue.

There's roughly a week - at least, I'm fairly sure it's a week - between the dark periods, but not any consistent number of days. Time is hard to tell here, there's nothing but the white walls of my cell, the equally white cot in one corner, and a toilet that folds nearly seamlessly into the wall. If it wasn't for the meals that get delivered, always when my back is turned or my eyes are closed, I could almost believe there is no door. But the next time I wake from sleep there will be a meal waiting for me, my newest wound will be wrapped in flawless bandages, and any trace of blood will be gone.

Something is happening, I know that much. It's been seven times since I started counting these periods of memory loss, and my inability to figure them out is starting to drain what little sanity I have left. I've never believed that I was left here to die, the appearances of the regular meals was proof enough that I was being kept alive, but there was also never any apparent reason I was here. The metal collar around my throat keeps my reiatsu contained, and not even my moments of frustrated rage have succeeded in scratching the walls, so there is no escape that I can figure out. There's no reason I can think of that I'm not dead, that Bach - and I _do_ remember Bach dragging me off after my failed attempt to kill him - didn't kill me when he got the chance. If he's not using me, if I'm not useful in _some_ way, then I should be dead.

And if he is using me, during these periods, what is it _for?_ What is it that I'm doing, that I can't remember? The bruises suggest that I'm fighting someone, or _some_ _thing_ , but that brings up a question I don't want to dwell on. Is he controlling me, and am I hurting people against my will, or am I fighting _him_?

I clench my fist, watching the blood slip from my wrist, and drag in another thick breath. I shake my head, staring down at my self-inflicted scars and letting the sight calm me. At least I have this much control, fleeting as it is. I know the number of times I've woken missing memories, I know how many times I've done whatever it is that I'm being made to do.

It's a tiny comfort in this place, but it's all I have and I cling to it with desperation.

I thought I was going to go mad, the first few months I was trapped here. It's amazing how quickly the mind deteriorates. I waited for days, sure that the moment I closed my eyes and succumbed to my exhaustion, they'd drag me out for whatever fate awaited me. But as time passed, I realized that something was wrong. I was trapped in here, in this roughly ten by ten foot room, and no one even seemed to really remember I was here. Had I been left in here to be forgotten? Was I going to spend the rest of my life in this white room, fed by invisible watchers, never to see another person ever again?

I beat my knuckles bloody against the walls, screamed until I couldn't, raged in frustrated panic until I collapsed, and woke to find all trace of it erased. The only proof I'd done anything were the white bandages around my knuckles, covering the bruised and torn flesh. I tried counting the days by the meals I was delivered, but any physical marks I left on the walls, even if they were hidden beneath my cot, were gone the day after I'd made them. These days, I have no _idea_ how long I've been in this room, and I probably never will.

I passed anger and frustration a long time ago. I could only stay angry at Bach and the other Quincy for so long before the feelings dwindled and drained away, leaving hollow emptiness in their place. It's hard to hold onto rage at blank walls and faceless captors, and what was the point in being angry? What would it change?

Then, some time after anger passed, the first absence of time occurred. I woke bruised, sore, my head pounding as if I'd somehow earned a hangover, with no explainable cause. Nothing was out of place, the plain white pants they left me as clothing were pristine, as usual. I panicked, but apart from the lingering physical evidence that I had done _something_ \- or had something done to _me_ \- there was no clue of what had happened. I remembered being in my cell, sitting against the wall and letting my thoughts drift, and then, nothing until I woke. I hadn't been tired, so the only explanations were that I had either suffered some kind of mental breakdown, or my memory had been tampered with.

Neither option was enticing.

I healed, the bruises faded, and then the second one occurred. After the fourth time, I tore the marks into my wrist. I knew keeping track of anything on any surface of my cell was pointless, it would only disappear, so I decided to mark the blank times into my skin. They'd never healed anything I'd done to myself before, why would they start now? The marks were bandaged, but not treated beyond that, and they scarred just as I hoped they would.

I have to wonder how long this will go on. Will I run out of room on my arm, will I have to switch to the other one? Will I, eventually, have to move onto the rest of my body? At that point, will I still care enough to do it, or will I have lost all semblance of sanity?

My panic has faded, I no longer mark my skin out of fear or frustration, but out of the simple need to keep myself intact. There's nothing I can do to stop whatever is happening - if the bruises are any indication, however I fight isn't working - but I can at least mark down the passage of time within my prison. I can keep myself one step away from the tempting numbness. I have no more hopes, no more dreams, I know this is what my life has become. If anyone still lives, they can't retrieve me, or they don't want to. If no one is alive, then I am at Bach's mercy even more than I was before.

What more matters?

* * *

It's about another week before anything changes. I don't wait in suspense, I care far too little for that, but I await the dark time I know is approaching. What else do I have to think about, or to do? I can only exercise so much, and even that ceased to be any kind of diversion after a while. I do it out of habit now, for lack of anything else to do, and at least the activity lets me lose myself for a time.

I'm in the middle of a workout, running through old exercises and moves from my martial arts classes, when I hear a sound that _isn't_ me.

I spin around, watching in stunned disbelief as the wall across from my cot folds in on itself, opening into a corridor. The three figures standing there are familiar, and I clench my hands as something vaguely resembling anger stirs. Bach, his blond lieutenant, and one of the women Quincy that I'd briefly encountered. Candice, I think? She's smirking at me, left hip cocked to one side and one hand resting on it, while the lieutenant watches me impassively, and Bach stares me down with a quiet intensity.

"Bach," I greet, and I can't summon the interest to be alarmed over how rusty my voice sounds.

"Ichigo," he answers, "you'll come with us."

Until that moment, I would have sworn that I'd do almost anything to get out of this cell, but faced with the three of them, it suddenly seems like a bad idea to leave the relative safety of the white room. "Why?" I ask, instead of moving.

"We have need of you," Bach answers smoothly, flicking one hand towards me as he turns away. "Bring him."

Candice is on me faster than I can blink, one hand wrapping around my upper left arm like a steel band. She drags me forward, and I give a small, startled sound, struggling to find my footing. Bach leads the way, his lieutenant a step behind him, and Candice brings up the rear with me. The corridor is an easier shade of grey, like concrete, but just as plain and seemingly empty as my cell is. It curves slightly, but it doesn't seem to have anything in it, or any visible ends.

Eventually Bach draws to a halt in front of a section of wall that, as far as I'm concerned, looks the same as any other, and presses one hand to it. Reiatsu flickers around his hand, and there's the same slight mechanical sound as the wall folds into itself. That cements, to me, that there is no way out of my cell. Even if I knew how, my reiatsu is locked away, I couldn't open the door/wall without it. It opens to a fairly large room - granted almost anything looks big compared to my cell - that's got one huge four poster bed taking up the center of the room, and assorted chairs and sofas around it. It stirs a faint sense of unease that I can't pin down the source of.

Bach holds out a hand, stepping aside, and Candice pulls me into the room. "I'll inform the others that he's here," Bach says, stepping back as the wall closes, and Candice releases me as the last piece folds in. It's seamless, and I spend a moment looking for _any_ hint of where it was - and not finding any - before looking down at the Quincy I've been left with.

"Do I want to know?" I ask, the words grating against my throat.

She shrugs, strutting towards the bed in the center of the room. "You haven't liked the answer before," she says carelessly, removing her hat and tossing it to one side, running long fingers through her mess of light green hair. She leans down, removing her boots, and I move closer to her. It's not like there's any way out of this room, and not like even if I could get out, I could escape Candice. Not with my power bound.

"This is what happens," I guess, as she straightens up and tosses her boots in the same vague direction as her hat.

"Yeah, that's right." She turns, flashing me a wide grin and meeting my eyes with hers. They're a slightly darker green than her hair, emphasized with mascara and a small amount of black eyeliner. In a weird way, she almost reminds me of Grimmjow. Not in looks - though her grin is sort of similar - but just in attitude. "Shame the King wipes your memories, I think you deserve to keep them."

"In a good way, or a bad?" I ask, after a moment of hesitation.

Her grin widens, and she shoves me back against one of the bed posts with a single hand. I give a grunt of pain, my bare back hitting the carved wood with more force than is comfortable. Her fingertips, still behind one of her elbow-length gloves, press lightly into the center of my chest, but despite the lack of force, I'm damn sure that it's enough to keep me exactly where I am until she decides to let me go.

"It's always good," she answers in a purr, and I can't help swallowing.

The fog is clearing from me, my senses coming in sharp and clear for the first time in... well, a long time, as my mind greedily devours the new input. Even with the knowledge that whatever she's about to do is going to leave me sore and bruised - I imagine the headache is a result of whatever Bach does to remove my memories - I can't help enjoying the deviation from the white walls of my cell. It's stimulating, refreshing, and it almost hurts to know that in something like a few hours, I won't remember ever having left.

She grabs my left wrist with her free hand, dragging it up. "Tch, you've hurt yourself again," she nearly snaps. I glance down, at the white bandages still wrapped around what will be my latest scar, as soon as it heals. "Why are you doing that?" she demands.

"To keep track," I answer simply, and her gaze flicks back up to mine. In a moment her grin is back, green eyes narrowing.

"Aw, how sweet." She releases my wrist, reaching up to grasp my chin instead, and drags me down. The pieces click together into an almost complete puzzle when her lips meet mine.

"Oh," I murmur, when she lets me pull back. " _Oh_. I'm," the words ' a virgin' die on my tongue. No, I guess I'm not. If this is what has happened the previous seven areas of blank time, I guess I'm pretty far from a virgin at this point. That's kind of a sobering thought. "Why?" I ask, instead.

She lets go of me and steps back, stripping her gloves from her arms. She has long nails, unpainted, my mind decides to realize. "We're kinda a dying race, honey," she says, not sounding particularly like she cares. "You're fresh blood." She drops the gloves, stepping back into my space, and puts her now bare hand back on my chest. "You might not be a _pure_ Quincy, not like the Ishida we've got, but you're powerful. Power is something we could use more of."

 _Uryuu_. My mind clings onto the fact that he's still alive, before I have to smother an almost hysterical laugh. Yeah, and in a few hours I won't remember that either.

"You're breeding me?" I ask, real emotion rising in the form of disbelief, and something that I can't honestly call disgust. "Aren't there easier ways?"

She gives me a wicked grin. "But none that are quite so much fun. Relax, we're not going to hurt you."

I pull back from her second kiss long enough to ask, "We?" before she pushes me back against the bedpost.

"You're always so endearingly naive," she says, stepping closer and up against me. She's soft, curved, and her skin is warm against mine, an experience that at least _feels_ new to me. I can't help raising my hands, resting one cautious hand on her left arm and another on her bare waist. I'm honestly not sure whether it's to push her away - not that I could - or just to not have them hanging at my sides. "Breeding for power, honey," she continues, all but ignoring my hands. "You think our King would limit that potential to just me?"

Now I understand why I wake up sore.

My hand clenches down on her arm - which is lean muscle, proving her status as a warrior - as I stare down at her. "But, I..."

"Speak words," she demands, a smirk on her lips.

I wrack my mind for the right way to say what I'm thinking. Eventually, as I watch her smirk fade and irritation gather in her green eyes, I find it. "Why not just ask?" I say softly, and she blinks.

"That's a first," she comments, leaning back a little bit to study me. "What do you mean?"

I give a small shrug, keeping her gaze. "To get out of that cell, to see other people, I think I'd do pretty much anything you wanted me to. This isn't nearly as bad as some of the things I've considered as explanations for my missing memories."

"Hot damn," she says softly, that grin once again returning to twist her lips upwards, "I didn't think we'd ever see the day you stopped fighting us. Everyone else stopped a while back, but you never really gave in."

"Disappointed?" I ask, and she shakes her head.

"Nah." She steps back, pulling me with her, and then guides me back and around the edge of the bed. She shoves me down, more gently this time, so I'm sitting on the edge, and slides her way in between my legs. I swallow down nerves - even knowing I have to have done this before, I certainly don't remember - and keep her gaze as I look up at her. "I'll speak to the King for ya, honey, but I can't promise anything." One of her hands reaches forward, combing my hair away from my face and lightly raking her nails over my scalp as she slides them to the back of my skull. My eyes flutter shut, a soft groan rising in my throat. It's been so long since I've had any real physical sensation other than pain, even the minor feeling is like bliss.

She nudges my chest with one hip, and I force my eyes back open. She reaches down with her free hand, grabbing my right arm and raising it to the knot holding her modified uniform closed. The midriff-bearing, low-cut halter top, and the tiny shorts, weren't hiding much to begin with, but the implied removal of them still lights butterflies in my stomach.

She smirks down at me, leaving my hand resting high on her side. "Relax, it's not that complicated," she promises. It doesn't sound gentle, or even particularly kind, but at least it's something.

I raise my other hand, cautiously undoing the cloth, and force my eyes away, with a flush lighting my cheeks, as the shirt falls open. She laughs, nails scratching at my scalp again, before her hand leaves my head. I hear the rustle of cloth, and a moment later the shirt enters my vision, dangling from her fingers. My breath catches in my throat for a moment, and I fight the urge to look back over.

"Such a gentleman," she purrs, dropping the shirt and reaching for me. Her fingers hook under my jaw, tugging my head back towards her. "Not the first time, honey." Her breasts are fairly large, dark - and slightly erect - nipples marking the centers of them, and I can feel my cheeks burning.

"It is for me," I protest, raising my gaze, after a few moments, to meet her green eyes. She lets me go, hands lowering to the belt hooked into her shorts. "It's, Candice, right?" I ask, and she nods. The shorts fall to the floor, along with a pair of panties the same color as her hair, and she grins at me as I swallow.

"You're kinda adorable," she comments, "now take your pants off."

I freeze for what is apparently a moment too long, because the next second her nails are scraping down my hips, pulling the white pair of what are essentially sleep pants down along my legs. My eyes widen, but I don't even have the time to think about what to say, before she has them off of me. She grins, dropping them to one side and putting her hands on her hips as she straightens back up.

"Sit up against the headboard," she demands, and I obey without really thinking about it. I shift backwards along the white covers - smooth and soft against my skin - and press my back against the wooden headboard. She follows me, swinging a leg over to straddle mine. Her hand wraps around my half-erection, stroking, and my head falls back against the wood with a ragged gasp. It's overwhelming, more sensation than I've felt - and remember feeling, anyway - in, probably, months. My hands curl into the sheets, grasping handfuls, and she makes a pleased sound. It's a complete surprise when, a few moments later, warm wetness engulfs me. I give a choked moan, and she echoes it with her own unrestrained moan.

One of her hands wraps around the back of my neck, dragging me into a kiss, while the other loops around my side and lightly rakes nails down my back. I raise my own hands to rest on her waist, answering her kiss with a passion that surprises me. She clenches down, sliding up and almost completely off of me before slipping back down, and my hands clench down on her waist as I arch into her. Her lips leave mine as she moves, the hand at the back of my neck leaving it to grip the top of the headboard. Her eyes are closed, mouth slightly agape, and she gives a tiny gasp as my grip tightens a little further. I immediately relax it, and she looks down at me with a breathless laugh.

"You can't hurt me, honey, don't worry about it." The grin on her lips is wide, though she never stops the slow rise and fall of her body. "Though, I'm sure there's more interesting things you could be doing with your hands." Her nails rake across my back again and I give a sharp cry of pleasure, letting my head drop down against her shoulder.

My teeth grit, my breath leaving me in pants, and partially on her urging, I allow my hands to move from the relative safety of her waist. I raise one to press between her shoulder blades, beneath the mess of her hair, and lower the other to rest on the curve of her ass. When she doesn't hit me, and in fact gives a small pleased sound, I allow myself to put a bit of pressure behind my hands. I could never move her, but she does lean closer to me anyway, moving in response to the push of my hand against her back, until our bodies are pressed together. Her breasts press against my chest, and the sensation adds a new level to the rising swell of fire within me.

Her pace picks up, and I fight back the urge to bite at her shoulder, digging my fingers into her ass instead. She laughs, clenching down around me, and I shudder against her.

"I," I gasp, in some semblance of a warning, and her hand presses against my back and against the stinging lines her nails have left.

"I know," she answers, before I can find the rest of the words.

I give a cry, my muscles locking and my mind blanking out, as I spill into her depths. I clutch at her, probably harder than I should, as she rocks in gentle motions over me. Her hand strokes over my back, the other lowering to rake through my hair. I shudder against her, slowly easing into warm afterglow, my eyes closed against her shoulder.

"Mmm," she purrs, still vaguely rocking as I grow soft inside of her. I straighten up a little bit, with herculean effort, and open my eyes. She meets my gaze with a smirk, and I get a flash of shame as I properly put the events together and realize the kind of pitiful time that I lasted. I open my mouth and she shakes her head, raising herself until I slip out of her. I give a shudder and a choked sound of pleasure, hands clenching down on her for a moment. "Relax, honey," she says in a purr. "Done this before, remember? I didn't expect anything else." She gets off of me, shrugging out of my grip, and slips off the bed. She stretches, and I watch her with no small amount of hunger.

I follow her, standing even though my legs feel a bit like noodles, before she turns and shoves me back onto the bed with one hand. I give a startled gasp, bouncing slightly on the sheets, and she grins down at me. "But, I-" She cuts me off.

"You might not have any practice at this, _darling_ , but the girls and I talk. Of the three of us, we all chose you as our favorite fuck, over our two captive Ishida." Two? Uryuu's dad is here? She gives a small sound of irritation, running her fingers through her own hair. "Those two are cold - like father like son, I guess - and all restrained, putting up with it. But you're all reaction, and fire. Plus," she leans down over me, grinning, her hands pressing against my shoulders, "it helps that you've got a nice cock."

I really don't have any words to answer that, and it's probably good that the wall folds aside in that moment. I look over, as does Candice, as three other Vandenreich women enter. One is slightly shorter than Candice, with long black hair that's cut above her eyes but otherwise falls down to her mid-back, except where some of it is pulled up near the center of her head, into two split bits that look rather like antenna. She has a small version of the white Vandenreich cap pinned to the side of her head, and her eyes are large and blue, lined heavily in eyeliner. Her uniform is a white trench coat, buttoned close on the front with two lines of three buttons each, that falls to her mid thigh. Her legs are covered in black stockings, and she's wearing short white boots, and there's a thin, crooked, black belt that has a white pouch on her left side.

The second is a tall woman, with breasts that strain against her uniform, and long pink hair that is the exact same shade as her eyes. She's got the normal cap, though it's turned to one side, and the sleeves of her uniform ends high on her arms in frills. It has a high collar, tied closed with a large pink bow that has a white Vandenreich symbol on the front of it, and ends in a short frilled skirt. She's got small frilled gloves, equally small frilled boots, and a belt looped around her waist with a heart shaped buckle on the front of it. I remember seeing her before, as I recall both of them, but I don't remember either of the two's names.

They step inside, the wall reforming behind them, and Candice straightens up.

"Took you long enough," she says with a grin.

They approach, ignoring Candice's state of nudity, and the black haired one gives me a smile that is strangely empty. "He looks a little less mauled than usual, Candy. Were you nice?"

"I'm never nice, Gigi," Candice answers, hands on her hips. "He's decided not to fight us," she continues, and the pink haired one gives a small smile.

"Really?" she asks, looking down at me, and I fight the urge to fidget under the look or hide myself. I prop myself up on my arms, as Candice moves, swinging her arm over the black haired one's shoulders.

"Be great if the King let him keep his memories, wouldn't it?" She stretches, continuing past the two of them to sprawl out on one of the sofas. "We could just have him all the time, and we could teach him." I flush, as 'Gigi' looks back at Candice, that empty smile still on her lips.

"Yes, that would be quite pleasant." I decide that she creeps me out a little, but don't get the time to dwell on it, as the pink haired one sits down beside me with a small bounce, offering me a hand in greeting.

"I'm Meninas," she says quietly, "and that's Giselle. Good to meet you."

I take her hand, shaking it with only the slightest bit of confusion. "Haven't you met me before?" I ask. "Candice said this is what happens during the times I can't remember."

"Well, yes, but now you're actually participating. Besides," she smiles again, "it's new every time for you. Wouldn't it be rude to not introduce ourselves?"

"I suppose," I agree, cautiously.

I glance between the three of them, as Candice leans her head back onto one of the pillows on the sofa, green eyes closing as she tucks her hands behind her head. I swallow as she, not looking at any of us, says, "Have at him, girls. I didn't wear him out _too_ badly."

The black haired one, Giselle, looks back at me, fingers rising to the buttons of her trench coat. "It's alright, Kurosaki," she says in a voice that is almost a singsong, "we're nicer than Candy is, though Minnie forgets her own strength sometimes."

"I'm not used to having to hold back!" Meninas protests, a slight frown on her face, and then turns to me. "You're cooperating now," she says with an instant smile, "so just let me know if I hold you too tightly, alright?" I manage a nod, my breathing picking up a notch as she stands from the bed, and the trench coat falls away from Giselle's frame.

I stare up as the two of them undress, chattering back and forth at each other like two schoolgirls. Oh, Christ, what have I gotten myself into?

* * *

Bach looks down at me, reddish-brown eyes studying, and I swallow under his gaze. His power presses into the air around me, rough against my unprotected skin. I clutch the sheet around my waist, meeting his eyes and trying not to tremble. His look is unreadable, and he's been staring at me for at least a few minutes. Candice had apparently - I passed out when they finished with me - gone to speak with him, to make her case for me keeping my memories.

"Candice informs me that you've decided to stop fighting us," he says in a deep voice, and I nod.

"Yes, that's right."

"Tell me why."

I tighten my grip on the sheet around my waist, gripping my lower left arm - above the bandages covering my latest soon to be scar - with my free hand. "I don't want to wake back up, wondering what I might have done or what was done _to_ me. I don't have the power to fight you, and I don't think I can spend much longer in that cell," I can't help the shudder, or the way my grip tightens on my arm enough to make my scars turn white, "so if this is what you want from me, I'll do it."

"I would need more from you than this," he says, "if you wish me to not only allow you to keep your memories, but to grant you the freedom of not being contained in a cell. What do you have to offer?" I grit my teeth.

"I won't hurt people for you," I say, the last shreds of my sanity rebelling against the very idea. "Whatever else you want, I promise."

"Would you stand beside me in one of our uniforms, declare your allegiance?"

I hesitate for a moment, but nod. "If I have to, yes."

He studies me for another long minute. "Kneel," he says eventually, "swear your loyalty to me."

I swallow what scraps of my pride are left, sinking to my knees in front of him. "I'll do whatever you want me to," I say softly, bowing my head, "I swear."

"Very well. I'll find somewhere else for you to stay, under guard for now. As long as you obey my orders, Kurosaki, I will keep you out of a cell, and I will let you keep you memories." Fingers curl under the metal collar around my throat, pulling me to my feet, and I meet his eyes. "Step out of line, boy, and I will tear your memories from you and dump you back in your cell, never knowing anything but that you're missing a few more hours of time. Am I understood?"

I shiver, swallowing, and nod. "Yes." His eyes narrow briefly, and then he lets me go, tapping his fingers against the collar.

"If you're going to stand beside me, you'll need some of your power back. I'll look into less all encompassing methods of restraining your strength, Kurosaki." He turns away, striding back towards the trio of women against the wall. "Candice, for now Kurosaki will stay with you, until other arrangements are made. Meninas, Giselle, come with me."

He opens the wall with a touch of his hand, as Candice heads towards me, and the three others leave the room. They've all redressed, and Candice fits her hat back on top of her hair with an easy motion, tugging it into place. "Congratulations," she says, almost mockingly, but with a grin, "now you can be our pet all the time."

"Better than the alternative," I say quietly, and after a few moments of looking at me she shrugs.

"Fair enough. Come on, put your pants back on so we can head back to my quarters. We could both use a bath." Not going to lie, that sounds like a little slice of heaven right about now. I look around for them, letting the sheet fall out of my grasp, and she steps forward a moment after it falls, grasping my left wrist. Her fingers trace over my skin, over each of the six visible scars and then the bandages covering the seventh. "No more of this, you hear me?"

I shake my head. "Won't add an eighth unless I fuck up and wake back up in my cell. It's all I could do to hang on."

She nods, releasing me and meeting my gaze. "Then there won't be any reason for another. Move it, _darling_ , I've got shit to do."


End file.
